Sodding Useless Wizards
by torchwoodtimelord
Summary: Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes have a rather comfortable arrangement. And then Sherlock turns out to not be dead. John gets angry. The British Government and The Inspector have a tiff, and make it up with cake and beer. That is, they would have if Sherlock hadn't been staying with them at the time. - A Sherlock!Wizardverse short
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Sodding Useless Wizards  
**Series:** Sherlock!Wizardverse  
**Fandoms:** BBC!Sherlock/Harry Potter  
**Pairings:** mystrade  
**Author:** Z-sama (dA user _the-lady-harkness_) and TWTL  
**Beta:** none

**WARNINGS:** angry john, post-reichenbach

**MISC:** We don't own Sherlock, nor do we own Harry Potter... Check out bonus content on the Sherlock!Wizardverse tumblr... _**sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com**_

* * *

It had been a long afternoon.

No.

It had been a long day.

From the moment he had said goodbye to Mycroft that morning, apologizing for having to run to work on his scheduled day off by giving him the last cupcake from the night before, Greg Lestrade knew it was going to be a very long day.

He'd gone into the office looking worn out. He'd been up all night, not really doing much of anything but dreading the next day. Mycroft had sat silently with him before finally convincing him to get some rest.

First, he'd been called in on a murder. No surprise. It was still his job, after all. But the circumstances surrounding it… He'd been forced to call in help. In the past that had meant Sherlock. But now…

So he'd met John Watson at the park, the man still unwilling to go near St. Barts. Especially on this day of all days. They'd chatted after John gave the photographs a cursory glance. Greg had asked after Mary, of course. It was the polite thing to do. He'd offered to head over to the cemetery with him, but John had declined, saying he'd already been. John gave his theories based off the photographs, and he left.

Greg wasn't sure John realized how much he had picked up from Sherlock in the short time they'd lived together. The doctor was nowhere near the dead detective's level, but he was amazingly brilliant all the same. Better than those clods he had working under him.

By the late evening they'd had it wrapped up with a nice neat bow. He'd gotten a text from Mycroft apologizing that their dinner plans would have to be postponed until tomorrow.

So, his entire day shot to hell, his evening canceled, Greg Lestrade had stopped by a florist right before she closed up shop and bought a sorry looking bouquet of flowers because that's all she had left that still seemed to have some semblance of life in them. He took it to the cemetery. Just as he'd done for the last two years. Silly, really.

But then he reminded himself how not-silly it was as followed that same long walk. That same old path to the tombstone that had seen its fair share of vandalism over the last three years. Most of it foul… And some of it, just some of it, hopeful. He'd once found the entire back side of the marker covered in bright yellow declaring for the world to see that **_Moriarty Was Real_**. The front side equally defaced with **_I BELIEVE IN _**right above the name, and the words **_YOU SHOULD TOO_** below.

John had it cleaned up, of course. At first he'd taken care of it himself… But more and more he'd had someone else come out to scrub away the paint. To pull away the papers taped to the back and the sides. Clear away the trinkets left behind by others who'd never believe the lies.

Now, standing there at the foot of the grave, he sighed and remembered the day Mycroft had told him his boys in suits had discovered just how close to death he'd come that day. A mole on the squad, ordered to kill if Sherlock hadn't…

And because he had, Greg was alive. John was alive. Hell even Mrs. Hudson had been targeted according to Mycroft's agents. Because of what Sherlock did, he was there to pick up the shattered remains of Mycroft Holmes, such as they were. And now…

"I'm surprised you still make the trip."

Greg dropped the flowers and jumped back in surprise, looking around for where the voice had come from.

"Stop that. You look like a frightened mole rat."

"Oh god…" Greg said, forcing himself to calm down. He was a grown man for Christ's sake. He was just imagining things. Wouldn't be the first time. At least, he hoped it was his imagination. Because his next guess was a ghost. And after an encounter with the one that had decided to live at Grimmauld Place last summer, he wasn't too keen on the idea.

"Not your imagination." The empty air that was behind the tombstone suddenly had a head floating in it.

Greg yelped, jumping again with wide eyes. "You're-"

"Not a ghost."

"But-"

"Invisibility cloak. Stole it from mummy out of spite." The rest of the body followed.

Greg still hadn't moved from his spot, unsure if he was having a stroke or…

"Three things," the man who should have been in the grave between them said. "Firstly, I am alive. Secondly, I need your help to clear my name. I have more than enough evidence collected in the last three years for you to present to accomplish this."

Greg swallowed hard, still not believing what his eyes were seeing.

"Thirdly, and this is the most important, Lestrade. **Do not breathe a word of this to Mycroft**."

**o0o**

He'd gotten in late, but thankfully before Mycroft. It gave him time to think over the encounter at the cemetery. He seated himself in the parlour in his favorite chair. The one that Mycroft had bought him shortly before he'd moved in. Back when his now blissfully ex-wife had kicked him out to move her gym teacher boyfriend in. Back before he'd gotten in bed with the British Government.

So lost in thought he hadn't noticed when his bed-mate had returned home until an elegant silver tray was set down on the low table in front of him and the seat beyond that was filled with the older wizard and his black ministry robes.

"I thought we had an elf for that."

"We did. Mummy finally managed to get the wretched thing to stop coming back."

Greg gave a tired smile, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea only to find Mycroft had already done so. He'd even fixed it just the way he liked. So he picked up the cup and one of the little pastries beside it. He ate and drank in silence, trying his best to push thoughts of Sherlock from his mind. He was sure Mycroft would read his thoughts easily from his face. Or the way he held his pastry. He was quite used to it by now of course, and thanked whatever greater power was responsible for giving his lover tactfulness.

"These are quite good," he said. "Not from your usual place. It doesn't have that weird wizard fruit in it."

Mycroft sat with one leg crossed over the other, his robes open to show his immaculate suit. "No. They opened a new bakery close to my office."

Greg nodded in response and reached for another, lapsing again into silence. But it was more bearable now that he wasn't alone.

**o0o**

It had been three weeks since the anniversary of Sherlock's death. And three weeks since he'd found out that brilliant git was actually alive the entire time.

And now, he was looking up from the ground, holding his jaw (sure he'd heard it crack) as John Watson glared down at him angrily.

It was quite sudden. He'd been with Molly in the lab, going over some of the evidence Sherlock had brought him the night before. Once again, Mycroft had been called away to his _other_ job. This time something about a dark wizard cursing a cactus. Sherlock had told him to go to Molly. That she'd know what to do. That she'd known the entire time…

And now, apparently John knew as well.

Because he was so angry he couldn't form proper words. It all came out as a bit of a jumble. Something about kittens, Greg thought at one point. Kittens, bastards, and rage.

From the way he was holding his hand, Greg knew it hadn't been hurt when he'd hit the inspector. He picked himself up off the ground, declining Molly's offer to help. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand to check for the blood he could taste, Greg let John have his moment of anger a bit longer.

"Hate to see what the bastard looked like when you got done with him," he said, turning his head to spit into a nearby cup, thankfully empty of the coffee he'd had earlier. "I got work to do, so if you're done…"

He hadn't been done. He shouted a bit more, but that was just John. Once he got his initial rage out, he was full of shouting and frustration. He still wasn't too happy when he'd left, but at least he hadn't knocked Greg off his seat a second time.

**o0o**

When Mycroft saw him that evening, he'd insisted on having a look at his jaw himself. Casting a few diagnostic charms, which Greg had to agree were much more pleasant than having an x-ray done. And faster.

"A hairline fracture. You're lucky." After casting another quick spell to mend the bone, he set his wand down beside the small jars from his first aid kit.

"I know," Greg said as he watched his lover choose one of the jars and open it. The smell was terrible, and he wrinkled his nose. "Don't put that crap on me."

"Do you want to walk around with a bruise the shape of John Watson's fist on your face or do you want to frown without wanting to shout in pain?"

Grumbling under his breath, Greg turned his face and let him apply the cold, smelly cream on his face. "I'm not going to work tomorrow," he said, enjoying the feel of Mycroft's fingers massaging the sore spots on his face. "But I've got some errands to run. Need me to make any extra stops for you?"

"Mmm… I've got a meeting with Her Majesty on Tuesday."

"I'll make sure to get you an extra sponge cake." Greg smiled, wincing some.

"It's not going to work right away," Mycroft said at his discomfort, giving his cheek one last swipe with his fingers before closing the jar. He left it out of the kit when he closed the box and set it back on the shelf. "Reapply before bed. You should see significant improvement in the morning."

Greg caught his wrist and rubbed the skin just below his cuff with his thumb gently. Mycroft looked down at him with a smile. Not on his face, no. But in his eyes. Those were the only ones Greg could trust. The only smiles that he knew were real. "Early night?"

"Just a bit of paperwork left to do."

He nodded, looking away. "How many stacks?"

Mycroft's free hand took him by the chin gently, careful of his inspector's still sore jaw, forcing him to look him in the eyes again. "Just a folder or two. Nothing more."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Sodding Useless Wizards  
**Series:** Sherlock!Wizardverse  
**Fandoms:** BBC!Sherlock/Harry Potter  
**Pairings:** mystrade  
**Author:** Z-sama (dA user _the-lady-harkness_) and TWTL  
**Beta:** none

**WARNINGS:** sherlock's name should be its own warning, post-reichenbach

**MISC:** We don't own Sherlock, nor do we own Harry Potter... Check out bonus content on the Sherlock!Wizardverse tumblr... _**sherlockmalfoy . tumblr . com**_

* * *

Mycroft shot up out of his sleep as if struck by lightning. A cold sweat on his brow, his breathing heavy as if he'd just been running. He'd been having a rather pleasant dream until he felt it. What it was, exactly, he couldn't be absolutely sure. But his heartbeat was rapid in panic.

Greg shifted, muttering in his sleep and pulling more of the blankets up to compensate for the loss of Mycroft's body heat.

Across the bedroom he heard a voice calling to him from the fireplace. Panic in her voice. Sleepily Greg muttered, a little more awake. "Who the hell-"

"Just Lily," Mycroft said, patting the inspector's side through the blankets, trying to sound as normal and calm as possible. "Go back to sleep."

That's just what Greg did after rolling over and muttering under his breath about wizards needing to use the bloody telephone.

Climbing out of bed, Mycroft went to the fireplace in his bedroom, not caring that he was clad in just his sleep pants. The woman's voice hissed at him from the embers. "Did you feel that?"

He didn't need to ask her what she meant.

"Scorp, please tell me you felt that."

"I did," he replied, kneeling low by the fire. His brow was creased in worry. "Have you spoken to-"

"No no. You're the first one I-"

"Good. Keep it that way," he said, glancing over his shoulder before feeling it again. That sudden intense wave of… whatever it was that had woken him from his rather nice sleep. He bit his lip to keep from groaning at the feeling. His fingers tried to dig into the stonework as his stomach clenched and his chest felt like it were seizing up. "Lily," he managed quietly, "Are you under atta-"

"No. You?"

"No. Home," he managed to get out before the wave passed and he was left gasping for breath. If his sister was alright, and he was just fine…

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat.

"Scorp?"

He didn't reply.

"Scorp?" she repeated.

He glanced over his shoulder to the bed again, reassuring himself that Greg was still asleep before turning his attention back to the firecall. "Lily, do you think?…"

"It's the only explanation," her voice replied. "We have to act fast. Just in case-"

"Wait ten minutes, then cast a tracing charm on me."

"Should I contact the ministry? Get the aurors?"

"No. Not until we know for sure," he said, ending the call abruptly and quietly fetching a change of clothes. He dressed in the downstairs sitting room, casting every tracking spell and tracing charm he knew off before finally exhausting his knowledge of them with no results.

Then it hit him again. Weaker this time… but unmistakably an Unforgivable.

Seizing the opportunity, he cast a detection spell and soon was apparating, following the trail.

**o0o**

Mycroft had barely had time to think before he had reacted, stopping his brother from doing the unthinkable. The worst of the Unforgivables. He'd left their sister to take care of things before the aurors arrived.

And now, he sat in the sitting room floor of Grimmauld Place, his younger brother passed out from exhaustion in his lap, clinging to him as if they were still children. His legs had fallen asleep, but he dare not move.

He lifted his head, tearing his gaze away from his brother's face when he heard footsteps at the edge of the room. Greg had come in and was staring at them. Mycroft's face hardened as he read his lover's expression, finding not a shred of surprise, which he had expected. Only worry.

"Sherlock," Greg said softly, cutting his eyes now to the elder Holmes. "What happened to him? Who-"

Mycroft couldn't look at him. "You knew he was alive."

The inspector didn't respond to the comment. Instead, he started to ask, "Should I-"

His tone was even, cold. "Fix the spare bedchamber. Sherlock is going to be unconscious for some time."

Greg nodded slowly, slipping quietly from the room.

**o0o**

Mycroft had avoided his brother's room for three days. Their sister had taken primary care of him, but there was little she could do other than to check his vitals. The siblings had discussed what had happened between them, and argued whether to inform their parents that their brother really was, in fact, very much alive.

At least for the moment. Mycroft wasn't too sure how badly his brother had been injured, nor the extent to which he had drained himself. He shouldn't have been able to do wand magic at all, having _willingly_ snapped his wand and never touched another since.

Until this.

Mycroft sat on the fourth day, giving his youngest sibling a rest at last. He'd transfigured a book into a chair and seated himself comfortably. His attention was fully focused on the wand he'd taken from Sherlock's hands when he'd blacked out. He held it between his index fingers first, examining it first with his eyes. Taking in every detail before tracing the designs with his fingers. The wood was made of ash, but it was stained to resemble mahogany. At the edges of the silver were the faintest of burn marks, telling Mycroft that the inlay had been planned. Designed for a specific purpose. The silver tip was meant to focus the magic that came out of it as well as to serve as a counterweight to the handle.

He tried to bend the wand, just slightly, to test the tension. The wood was uncharacteristically springy, but held firm by the silver inlay. He raised a brow at this, finding it quite unusual. Then, he traced the designs etched lightly into the silver. They felt familiar, and he searched his memory for the answer…

A fond smile spread across his lips as he placed it. John's favorite jumper. The cabled designs.

At last he contented himself with just admiring the piece. It was unusual, the experts had told him, in that it held no maker's mark. It held no similarities to any wand they held knowledge of save for the base elements of its creation. But the core…

They could not identify the core. Only that it was some sort of hair, but not the typical unicorn.

He wondered where it had come from. Where Sherlock had found a maker for such an elegant piece of work.

As he was pondering this, the man in the bed shouted, his voice full of fear and pain as Mycroft had never heard it before. There was only one word that fell off those lips.

That word was a name.

That name was _**John**_.

**o0o**

Greg hadn't been home in days. He was working tirelessly on Sherlock's case, and trying to avoid Mycroft.

It was what they did when they were upset with one another. Each man would throw themselves into something. Into their work, usually. And then after a few days (once it had been nearly two weeks) a mysterious chocolate cake and a basket of pastries would appear by Mycroft's favorite armchair in the late evening. Or, if it had been Mycroft who had been in the wrong, a box of doughnuts, a pint of rocky road, and a 6 pack of Greg's favorite micro-brew would appear in the kitchen.

No verbal apologies. No verbal thank yous. No awkward social conventions. Instead Greg would give a gentle stroke on the arm. Mycroft would place a soft kiss to the temple. And behind closed doors and between the sheets they'd remind the other who was right and who was wrong. Afterwards each man would have the best sleep they had been allowed to have in since before they got mad at one another.

By morning, all would be right with the British Government. And the Inspector's division would be back in order.

It was just their way. It had always been their way since they'd started having a way.

So when Greg had finally come home the night before the press conference that was due to clear the air as far as Sherlock was concerned, he had three boxes of pastries and a chocolate cake with his usual shopping.

Mycroft had, of course, gotten the usual pint, doughnuts (minus one because he'd gotten a bit hungry on the way home) and the micro-brew beer.

As Greg was busy in the study setting up his apology for Mycroft, Mycroft was in the kitchen arranging his apology for Greg.

Unfortunately, Mycroft hadn't bothered to text his inspector to tell him their guest was awake. So when each man had later found Sherlock angrily pacing around Grimmauld Place with a pint of rocky road in one hand, a beer in the other, and half of Greg's apology cake missing, all while shouting that he needed to prepare for the next day, they shared their very first, and only vocal apology.

Knowing that Sherlock was up and about, pacing around their home angrily didn't help the mood, and they were unable to follow through with their routine.

Laying in the dark, listening to doors slam closed floors below, Greg groaned. "I swear to god, Crofty, I'm going to kill your brother."

Mycroft sighed, sitting up and turning on the light on the bedside table. He couldn't sleep. Might as well get some work done. "Wait two months. If John hasn't come out the other side of the love potion withdrawal, he may know where you can hide the body."

"You won't help?"

"I'll be busy covering your tracks and pinning it all on middle eastern terrorists. Or an escaped death eater. Possibly both," he said, reaching over to give his lover a gentle stroke on the arm. "Try and get some rest."

Another door slammed. Now they could hear Sherlock shouting.

"Could you put a silencing charm on the room? Or I dunno, magic his mouth shut?"

"Unfortunately," Mycroft said with a sigh as he pulled out a folder from the drawer in his bedside table. "When he drained his core, he then started to drain on those physically closest to his location. Lily and I are the only family whom live in London."

"So…"

"Sadly my magical ability is… strained at the moment, and must build back up."

Greg grumbled something about _sodding useless wizards_ and buried his head under a pillow to try and get some sleep.


End file.
